


Confirmation Bias

by jimmriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternative Universe: jim and sherlock meet each other in a different way, Developing Relationship, I will probably edit and rewrite the story after a while, M/M, Sheriarty - Freeform, the first chapters are kinda old so i'm really sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 12:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3570239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jimmriarty/pseuds/jimmriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock needs a flatmate. After weeks of unproductive searches and cohabitations lasted less than 72 hours, James - former maths professor and brilliant criminal mind - replies to the ad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Confirmation bias is the tendency to search for, interpret, or recall information in a way that confirms one's beliefs or hypotheses. It is a mental process that search, select and interpret information in order to pay more attention, and thus give more credibility, to those that confirm their beliefs or assumptions, and vice versa, ignore or downplay information that contradict them. The phenomenon is more pronounced in the context of topics that give strong emotions or that touch deeply held beliefs."

Finding a flatmate isn’t as simple as it might seem. Especially if you are Sherlock Holmes, the world only consulting detective, and you have the strange hobby of hitting corpses with a riding crop and collecting body parts in the fridge. Well, hobby maybe isn’t the right word. Sherlock doesn’t keep a head in the fridge because it’s fun, but because the result of the experiments carried out on it could be crucial during a case. However, people don’t seem to understand– not that Sherlock thought they would – and make a huge fuss of it.

“A fucking hand? You are insane!” The man’s voice is several decibels higher than the norm; if only they had some neighbours – Mrs. Hudson doesn’t really count – they would probably complain about the noise and call the police for “disturbing the peace” or something like that.

Sherlock sighs heavily, watching the now-former-flatmate throwing his stuff – a pair of old jeans, a simple white shirt and a shirt of a famous rock band among other things – in the suitcase. “I can stand the violin at three in the morning, but this! This is too much.” Reply would be useless: Sherlock doesn’t say anything, blue eyes looking carefully at the other while he closes the trolley and leave the flat, slamming the door behind him.

It is the third one in a week.

***

Of all the things his parents (and Mycroft) made him learn, playing the violin is his favourite. Sherlock plays with his eyes closed. In the darkness behind his eyelids he can almost see his thoughts take shape and dance with the notes, pure electricity in the steady air. He breaths deeply, inhaling that familiar smell of old furniture, dust and apple pie that he now identifies as home.

He likes the flat. He likes his bedroom, he likes the living room and his comfortable chair, he likes the view from the window and, even if he would never admit it, he appreciates Mrs. Hudson’s presence. The wallpaper is still terrible though, he thinks, smiling slightly.

The cell phone rings suddenly, interrupting the symphony born from the strings of the instrument with his incessant sound. Sherlock opens his eyes, while his thoughts vanish like smoke in the wind. Sure, he could ignore the phone and pretend to not have heard the call, but what for? They already bothered him anyway.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Hi, I’m James!” Male. Probably in his thirties, British accent and a soft, pleasant voice, almost musical. “About that flat…”

***  
“Sorry, I got stuck in the traffic!”

As predicted, the man who comes out of the taxi is in his thirties. Not very tall, black hair meticulously pulled back, slight stubble on his face. He wears a well-made dark suit (the first two buttons of the shirt are undone) without a tie and his shoes are expensive, even if slightly damaged by the use. His clothes, plus dozens of other details such as the cost of his watch, tell him that James doesn’t have any economic problem. He doesn’t need a flatmate to split a rent otherwise too high and that already makes him potentially more interesting than others.

"James Zucco, nice to meet you.” He smiles, holding out a hand that Sherlock shakes quickly. “Call me Jim."

"Sherlock Holmes.” Jim’s skin is soft and delicate against his own. The man in front of him takes care of his appearance and probably uses moisturizers. “Don’t use nicknames."  
They stand there for a moment, looking at each other. It would probably seem awkward from the outside, but Sherlock doesn’t care at all. He keeps analyzing Jim, eyes running over his body inch by inch, looking for any clue that could tell him something more about his (possible) future flatmate. He doesn’t find any particular flaw. It’s a good sign.

"Before I show you the house I have to warn you. I love playing the violin at night."

Jim doesn’t seem impressed. He shrugs, looking at the detective.

“It doesn’t matter. My biological clock is pretty unusual and I don’t sleep often.” The corners of his lips slightly raise and Sherlock finds himself copying him, without being really aware. “Is that all?” Jim asks, tilting his head a little.

“Actually, there is more.” Better put the records straight immediately and avoid any waste of time. "You could find human body parts in the fridge or in the microwave. Scientific reasons, of course, but some people find it…” A small pause. “…unpleasing, I guess.”

Jim raises both his eyebrows and blinks a few times, genuinely surprised. Sherlock is used to it. Surprise is always the first reaction. It never lasts, it disappears suddenly, a fleeting mask that leaves room to disgust, curled lips and yelling. He waits, but nothing happens.

"Well, that is... uncommon." If anything, Jim seems amused. “But it’s not a big problem, I don’t like cooking.”

The thought of dead human parts doesn’t bother him in the slightest. It never happened before. The situation is just as unusual as pleasant and Sherlock’s lips rise in a little smile that dies few moments later, suppressed by the need of feeling always in control, always impassive.

“Are you already trying to kick me out? Jesus, it isn’t even five minutes!” A small laugh, soft and pleasant, escapes from Jim’s mouth. Before Sherlock could answer though, Jim shakes his hand in the air, as to change subject. "Speaking of your experiments, I would like to know more.”

Sherlock frowns. The fact that someone finally shows interest in his research makes him undoubtedly happy, but it's so unusual, so strange, that he doesn’t really know how to react. This is something new, a situation that Sherlock has never even taken into account, a land completely unexplored. The only person to have shown even the slightest interest was Molly Hooper, who has a huge crush on him. Not that Sherlock usually pays attention to that kind of things, but Molly is so embarrassing and easy to read that sometimes the detective can’t help but roll his eyes. He doesn’t want Jim to be like her. It would be boring (and annoying).

Anyway, the idea of having a new audience is thrilling. He usually speaks to Billy, his skull. It's not that bad, Billy doesn’t ask stupid questions, but he doesn’t congratulate him or praise his brain either. Having a real audience could be nice.

Sherlock nods, not sure what to reply, and points to the door. "Come, I'll show you the flat.”

"Actually... I thought we could go out and have dinner. Right now."

"Why, are you hungry?"

“Since when booking a table for two in a fancy restaurant has anything to do with food?” Sherlock would never associate the word “purr” to a human voice, but when Jim talks he can’t help but make the connection. It’s weird, but pleasing. Jim’s voice has a rare musicality and the detective finds himself wondering if the man in front of him can sing. “I just want to know you better.”

At those words, Sherlock grins, the thought of Jim singing already gone from his mind. He doesn’t reply immediately though and he looks at him for a bunch of seconds – he enjoys being dramatic sometimes – before opening his mouth.

“Oh, but I already know everything about you. “ He steps closer, shortening the distance between their bodies. “There are traces of chalk on your fingers, considering the time and your slight delay you've probably just given a lecture. University, of course. Your research area is scientific; you wouldn’t be interested in my experiments otherwise.” The voice comes out Sherlock’s lips like a flood river, quick, impetuous, so fast that being able to understand all the words is somehow difficult. “Corpses don’t bother you, so you’ve probably worked with them. You teach to medical students. I don’t have enough information right now to say exactly what you teach, but it doesn’t really matter.”  
Silence falls between them. Jim looks surprised, but when a chuckle escapes from his throat, Sherlock understands that something is wrong. He must have given him a bad look, because Jim puts his hand to his mouth, as to hide himself.

“I teach maths, actually. I just don’t use the kitchen often, so you can do everything you want in it, for what I care.” The grin on Sherlock’s face disappears suddenly, replaced by what seems a small pout. It’s an explanation so simple that it’s disappointing. “And I watch a lot of crime tv shows, so I don’t think I will scream near a real body. I guess.” He shrugs. “Those kinds of stuff simply interest me.”

Without saying another word, Jim quickly moves away, approaching the edge of the street to hail a cab.

“Shall we go, darling?”

  
***

Life runs fast behind the window. There are people who come home after a busy day at work, ready to sit at the table with their loved ones or with the undeniable sadness of a ready meal eaten in a silence broken only by the colourful noise of the television. Boring. Sherlock prefers to focus on the surroundings rather than on the people themselves. The streets, the buildings, the noises: London is beautiful. The town lives in every inch of his body, it’s in the blood that rushes in his veins and it’s in every single heartbeat. He couldn’t live anywhere else.

"So… Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.” Jim's voice, soft and permeated by the typical British accent makes him turn. "I did some research of course, I don't want to share a flat with a complete stranger!" He adds quickly, as to apologize. "Will I ever see you at work?" The smile on Jim's lips is hopeful and somehow childish.

Sherlock sighs and turns back to the window, absently playing with the cell phone in his hands. He doesn't have anything against Jim, but the wrong deduction still bothers him.

"I hope so. I don't have a decent murder in days."

***

It takes one single look to realize that the restaurant is expensive. Fancy, as Jim said before. The walls are decorated with paintings and there are fresh flowers on the tables, but the decorations aren’t excessive. It’s nice, even if a little too romantic. Romanticism is a foreign concept to Sherlock, but it doesn’t take a brilliant mind to notice how low the lights are and how all the customers are couples.

“Do you like it?” Jim asks, when they sit in a small table near the window.

“It doesn’t really matter.” Sherlock puts his elbows on the table – he knows that it’s considered bad manners, Mycroft never stopped to remind him of it when he was a child, but Sherlock doesn’t see why that should stop him from doing it – and joins his hands at the height of the lips. “Changing subject, why did you lie to me?”

“Sorry?”

"You used to teach maths. And you are Irish, not British." He pulls his phone out of his pocket, placing it in front of him. “I did some research too, while we were coming here.”

“Teaching wasn’t compatible with my lifestyle.” Jim simply replies, switching to an Irish accent and putting on a smile that seems to ask “why did it take so much?”. “And I never said I was still a teacher. Of course, I may have put some chalk on my fingertips on purpose, but you got to that conclusion, sooooo...”

An ordinary person would probably be angry, disappointed or at least confused from the lies, but not Sherlock. He lifts the corners of his lips in a smug smile, looking at the former professor.

“You wanted to prove me.”

“A friend of mine lived with you for a couple of days. Of course he told me a lot of things about you.” A small grin appears on Jim’s lips as his big brown eyes meet Sherlock’s. “So I thought you’d appreciate it, that’s all.”

There aren’t many people who would have done that – usually they tell him to shut up, to stop being so terribly melodramatic and start behaving like a normal person – but Jim tried to reach out to him. It’s a nice thought, even if the result wasn’t that good.

“You should have tried harder. Too easy.”

“Well, I couldn’t do more. I can’t delete all the information about me on the Internet.”

“I know.” Technically he could have asked for a hacker’s help, but even Sherlock knows that would have been too much to only make a good first impression. “That’s why I appreciated the effort.”

Sherlock really means it. Jim probably notices it, because the smile that appears on his face is wider than the others. “Thank you!“ After a brief moment, Jim leans towards the detective, as to reveal a secret. “We can play a game now, if you want.”

Jim is incredibly interesting. There is something about him – something that Sherlock is incapable of name – that draws him in a way that is completely different from the cold logic he always uses. There is nothing rational in the attraction – if it can be called so – Sherlock feels. He nods, unable to hide a half smile at what the Irish could suggest.  
“We could pretend to be a couple.”

At those words everything fades and Sherlock frowns, mildly disappointed. He doesn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t that.  
“Why?” He asks, not bothering to hide the astonishment expressed by his features.

“Why not? We are two well-dressed and handsome men in a fancy romantic restaurant. Everyone here thinks we are lovers.”

“I don’t care what people think of me.” There was a time when the insults of the other kids bothered him, there was a time when he really tried to comply with the idea that the Holmes family had of their second child, but those days are long gone and seem to belong to another era, moments that Sherlock doesn’t like to remember.

“It should. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that it should affect you in some way.” His mouth twists into a grimace. “You should just try to use that at your advantage.” Jim smiles and when he licks his lips, Sherlock feels a shiver that isn’t so different from the thrill of the case.

The Irishman is only a bunch of centimetres away from his face now. Sherlock can smell the scent of the aftershave he used and he could easily name it if he wasn’t too focus on Jim’s words. On a couple of occasions – when the situation demanded it – he has played the people around him, manipulating them into believing what Sherlock wanted them to believe.

“Or you could do it just for fun.” Jim adds, leans back in his chair. “Like I did with the teacher thing. You should try too, someday.”

Sherlock is so lost in his thoughts that he almost doesn’t notice the waiter that is now walking towards their table. The detective doesn’t even bother to look up at the man or to open the menu that lies unread on the table.

Jim is the one who breaks the silence.

“Love, what do you want to eat?” He purrs, moving one of his hands and placing it near Sherlock’s.

Few millimetres separate their hands, but the Sherlock can feel the warm of his skin against his own. It isn’t accidental. Jim doesn’t touch him because he doesn’t want to, he is offering something, but he’s not forcing himself. Sherlock appreciates it.

“Choose for me, darling.”

Sherlock spreads his fingers just enough to create a connection.

It’s so unnecessary that could be fun.

***

“It was nice, wasn’t it?”

When Jim laughs, he seems younger. The sound that comes out his mouth is high, childish, more like a giggle rather than a real laugh. It’s genuine, not forced and Sherlock can’t help but smile himself, nodding. The detective doesn’t see in Jim a potential love interest or anything like that, but seeing him react to his flirting was actually fun. He was right. (But Sherlock would never admit it.)

“Oh, so here we are. Home sweet home!” Jim singsongs, when Sherlock finally opens the door of the flat.

The room is messy, but Jim doesn’t say anything about it. Not that Sherlock finds his own flat messy, those are Mrs. Hudson words. She told him to clean up a little, adding that a clean house makes finding a flatmate easier. Sherlock ignored her, of course.

“Dear God.” After a bunch of seconds Jim puts on a disgusted – and over dramatic – face. “I haven’t noticed it at first, but this wallpaper is terrible. We should redecorate.”


	2. chapter two

He followed his steps for twenty years, observing from afar every single move. 

He spent a lifetime dedicated to the study and the constant observation of the only person capable of understand him, his potential equal, that tall kid with dark curls who has noticed him. Without being aware, Sherlock created an unbreakable bond between them. No matter how insignificant his movements were, Jim was always there, a silent and omnipresent shadow, always in the background. Only sometimes, when the temptation was too strong to be ignored, he allowed himself to bring their paths closer. Two customers in the same store, two people on the same road or two strangers sitting next to each other in the tube: Jim came near but never tried to reach him, no matter how easy it would have been. 

Now they live together. Sherlock acknowledges his existence, he’s there and he’s so close that all Jim would have to do is reach out and take the his hand, to show him how similar they are. Both lonely, bored, forced to live in a world too slow for their brain. They are made for each other. 

The fear of losing everything is however always there, a distressing thought concentrated in a small spot in the criminal’s mind. It doesn’t matter how hard Jim tries to repress it, that terror – because the feeling is so intense to be called such – never decrease. It’s like walking on thin ice: one false move and everything could collapse, breaking up into small splinters that will never get back together. At that point there would be only water, so cold to immobilize the limbs and stop the breath, deep enough to drag anything into the abyss. Jim doesn’t want to drown. It’s not how he wants to die. He always pictured the end of his existence like something warm, hot, explosive. 

This is why he never touches Sherlock. It’s too soon: physical contact would be too much to bear at this stage. Flirting is enough. 

He allows himself accidentally touches though – the light brush of the fingers when he gives Sherlock his daily cup of tea, for example – just to make sure that Sherlock isn’t a figment of his imagination, a mirror on which Jim has projected his own ideas and hopes. For the same reason, he tries to collect as much information as possible. Little details are brush strokes that paint the detective in Jim’s mind, making the image vivid and real and improving a painting that, to his eyes, it’s already beautiful. 

Sure, living with the only consulting detective in the world makes controlling a criminal empire more difficult, but it’s an acceptable price to pay to know - for example - that Sherlock has a not-so-secret interest for bees.

***

It’s their third morning together and Jim is sipping dark coffee from his favourite mug – it’s dark blue and has the planets orbits painted on it – when Sherlock makes his appearance from the bedroom.

Jim chokes on his drink. 

He is beautiful.

His messy curls fall on his face in a way so perfect that it’s almost unnatural, his movements are still a little bit sloppy and all Jim would like to do is push the detective into his bed again, for something completely different than sleeping. However, what made Jim almost spit out his coffee is what Sherlock is wearing. Or better, what he isn’t wearing.  
Jim licks his lips, wide dark eyes wandering on Sherlock’s body, covered only by a white sheet. His chest is partially exposed and his pale delicate skin never seemed more inviting. Sherlock is fit, but that’s not really a surprise since the detective wears shirts that are always a little too tight. Not that Jim is complaining. He would never complain about that.  
As he walks, the sheet slights down a little, revealing his hip. His naked hip. Sherlock isn’t wearing any pants. Jim keeps staring, both aroused and surprised, imprinting that wonderful image in his brain; he memorizes even the smallest detail, in order to recover the whole picture later. Maybe under a warm shower.

“I’m bored and I have no intention of dress myself.” Sherlock yawns, dropping into one of the chairs. 

“Darling, trust me when I say it’s the last thing I want.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply. He steals Jim’s coffee from his hand and takes a sip. 

“Ugh. Too sweet.”

“Well, that’s my coffee.” Jim takes back his mug, looking slightly offended. He’s not, of course. If anyone could ever drink from his mug, that’s Sherlock. “There is some left, though.” He adds, before placing his lips exactly in the same spot touched by Sherlock’s. He can’t help but smile at the thought, wondering if the detective noticed it. 

“Okay.” However, Sherlock doesn’t do anything. He stays still, not even bothering to look at the coffee pot.

“You know that I’m not going to bring it to you, right?”

“But it’s too far!” 

Jim raises one eyebrow and for once he is not faking astonishment not real. All Sherlock would have to do is stand up and make three, maybe four steps. He can’t believe the detective is that lazy. 

(There are days when Jim can’t even get out of his bed and he just lays there, looking at the white wall. He breathes only because it’s an automatic reflex, he lives because his body keeps working, a machine too efficient. But that’s another matter and has nothing to do with laziness or simple boredom: it’s a disease that follows him since he can remember.)

“Get off that sweet nice butt of yours, darling.” He takes another sip. “I won’t do it.”

“Then I don’t want it anymore.”

If Sherlock wasn’t Sherlock, Jim would have rolled his eyes. If he was someone that Jim disliked, the criminal would have had him killed on the spot. But Sherlock is Sherlock, the only man capable of challenge his mind, his only potential equal. So Jim doesn’t do anything. 

“I’m bored… I would do anything for a good murder.” The sigh that leaves Sherlock’s lips is familiar to the criminal’s ears. He knows exactly how the detective feels.  
Jim is working on something, of course. A series of forced suicides. But the police is too stupid, too blind to understand and three deaths aren’t enough. He needs a fourth one.  
“Don’t you feel guilty?” Jim asks, suddenly. 

“Mhn?”

“You know, wishing people to die.”

Sherlock sighs again. He has probably answered that question multiple times, receiving back always the same boring and ordinary bullshit about the importance of life or innocent people. 

“Everyone has to die, soon or later.”

“Jesus, you’re so selfish!” Jim giggles, happy with the response. “I like it. And I agree, of course.”

Sherlock smirks. Not a lot people would agree with him. Probably none. The thought makes Jim happy.

“Boys?”

Suddenly Mrs Hudson opens the door. The corners of her lips rise when she sees Jim and Sherlock sitting together at the table. 

“Oh, I just wanted to see if everything was alright.”

“Bring me the coffee.” Sherlock raises his gaze to her, speaking in a flat voice. On Mrs Hudson’s face Jim can read indecision, but when the woman looks at the pot and Sherlock adds a quick “please”, the criminal knows that she will do what she was told. Predictable. “I don’t really understand why you keep using two rooms…” She murmurs, passing a mug full of coffee to Sherlock.

They must look like a nice couple. Two lovers who just got out the bed and that are now sitting at the same table for the ordinary and daily ritual of breakfast. Messy hair, both more undressed than dressed – Jim himself is wearing only a white t-shirt upon his boxer – they probably look like they just had a session of lazy morning sex. Jim laughs. It’s a nice picture.

***

It’s four in the afternoon and Jim is watching some stupid show, without paying any real attention to what his happening on the TV screen. 

Sherlock is lying on the couch and, despite what he said that morning, he has put his robe on. What a pity. The detective doesn’t move. Sometimes the bright colours and loud sounds from television get his attention for two seconds, but after those Sherlock snorts and turns back. Jim looks at him for a brief moment, only to glance down to his phone. 

Everything should be ready by now. The police only have to notice the fourth suspicious suicide. 

It could take minutes as hours. Hopefully, Jim is a patient man.

***

Sherlock looks like a child on Christmas morning. His blue eyes seem to shine and Jim is sure that, if only he was alone, the detective would jump excitedly around the room. That’s an image that he would love to see, the criminal thinks, watching Sherlock’s fingers button up one of his usual too-tight-shirts. Jim can’t help but wonder if he buys them that way on purpose. Above the shirt he wears that ridiculous coat and scarf of his. Always so terribly dramatic.

Only when he’s ready Sherlock seems to notice Jim’s presence. The criminal already knows what he’s going to ask, but he decides to let him talk anyway. 

"Want to join me? You're not as smart as me, but you could be more useful than Scotland Yard." Insulting the police his lips curls in a smile. “It could also be your chance to see a real corpse.”

Jim replies with just a smile. It will be fun.

***

The crime scene is as expected. Except for the word carved into the floor, of course. But it's not a big deal. 

Lestrade’s voice – who asks him to wear a protective clothing to not contaminate the evidences – seems somehow distant. Jim doesn’t answer and merely raise a hand to silence him. As if he could wear something like that, he thinks, rolling his eyes and approaching Sherlock. The detective moves in circle around the woman. He observes her carefully, noticing every little detail. 

Jim doesn’t pay any attention to her. She’s just a victim, a body like all the others, while Sherlock is special and unique. The criminal watches him, fascinated by the way his blue eyes shine full of excitement every time Sherlock finds something relevant. 

Jim can’t help but wonder when was the last time he looked at something that way. 

When Sherlock kneels beside the body, Jim does the same. The criminal doesn’t care about the clues. He already knows everything there is to know about the victim – he’s a specialist after all, he did some research – and watch Sherlock immersed in his thoughts is much more fascinating. He can almost hear, no he can practically see, the brain of the great Sherlock Holmes at work and it’s a sight so beautiful that he could stay there for hours, just watching in admiration. 

(Maybe he looks at Sherlock the same way he looks at the crime scene.)

When the detective gets up there is a smile on his lips. Jim stays still, pretending to give a second look at the body. “Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I’m guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink.” The voice comes out from his lips like a stream. It’s low and fast and it’s easy to get lost in his speech if you don’t pay enough attention, but Jim knows that the speed of his words is in no way comparable to the one of his mind. “Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It’s obvious from the size of her suitcase.”

Greg sighs in exasperation.

“Oh, for God’s sake, if you’re just making this up ...”

“He isn’t making it up. Obviously.” Jim huffs, annoyed, and for the first time since they are there, Sherlock turns to him. The look on his face it’s the same he had the first day they met, at the restaurant, when he asked him to pretend to be his boyfriend. He almost giggles at the memory. “The wedding ring is old. Ten years…?” He decides to add an unsure tone to his words. Better not sound too sure of himself. "I think. Unlike the rest of her jewellery is dirty. She didn’t care that much about her marriage, after all.”  
Sherlock blinks. Once, twice. He looks at Jim with his lips slightly parted and a face so surprised that the criminal can almost see a huge question mark over his head, big and colourful like he is in a cartoon. Jim has to suppress a chuckle.

“The inside is clean, that means it was regularly removed.” He makes one step towards Sherlock. “Like Sherlock said, she didn’t work with her hands, so he had a lover. Well, more than one.” Jim’s voice fades and silence falls in the room.

“E-Exactly.” Sherlock, still astonished, clears his throat and moves closer. Two steps. He resumes his self-control. “Speaking about Cardiff… Her coat, it’s slightly damp. She’s been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. She’s got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it’s dry and unused…”

Sherlock's voice is even lower now, and Jim can’t help but lick his lips, dry. There are only the two of them now. Everything else - Lestrade, the crime scene, even the corpse lying not far from them – seems to disappear, nothing more than a blurring background. But has the world ever mattered when the two of them are together? There is only Sherlock. Sherlock with lips slightly open and eyes so bright and full of life that Jim just wants to dive in them.

“Wind. Strong wind, too strong to use her umbrella.” Jim finishes Sherlock’s sentence. That’s probably what the detective wants too. “We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can’t have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn’t dried. Cardiff makes sense.” Jim grins. “Oh, and the suitcase. Just look at the back of her right leg. He has to have one.” He adds, without even bothering to look at the corpse. If he didn’t want to show off too much, now he has changed his mind. 

The only thing he wants now is grab Sherlock by that ridiculous coat of his and pull him to his lips. He wants to kiss, bite and scratch him, bringing him so close that it would be impossible to say where Jim starts and Sherlock ends. Judging by the way the detective looks at him, he would probably let the criminal do what he wants.  
It’s like deductions are Sherlock’s dirty talking. He has to remember it.

No. He can’t afford it. He tries to think of the abyss. He recalls disgusting and gross images: his mind is focused on the woman’s body, on the way the drug entered into her bloodstream and killed her, on all the dismembered bodies and blood that he has seen during his lifetime. It doesn’t help much.  
Jim bites his tongue.

“Guys, this is a crime scene.” For once Jim is grateful for Lestrade’s interruption. He is annoyed (and a little bit shocked) by their behaviour and he doesn’t hide it. It takes a couple of seconds before he returns professional. "And we haven’t found any suitcase." 

Sherlock has never moved his eyes from Jim. He stares at him with the same intensity as before, the corner of the lips now curved upward in an amused smile.

"Then we have to find it."

***

Jim has always been a patient man. Yet he now finds himself drumming nervously his fingers on the table following the rhythm of one of Beethoven’s symphonies, checking the clock every two minutes, like a teenager before his first date. He doesn’t like the way Sherlock makes him feel: the detective holds way too much power on him and Jim already knows that it will be his downfall. Oddly enough, he knows he would be okay with that, and he hates himself for it. 

About half an hour before, Sherlock went out. He didn’t say where or why, but Jim knows that he took Jeff Hope’s cab. The criminal moves his lips, spelling the words that the man must have told to the detective and closes his eyes. By now they must have reached the predefined place. Hope must have pulled out the two pills. 

Jim has no reason to be nervous, he is certain that Sherlock will make the right choice. 

(In any case, Sebastian is in the opposite building, ready to interfere. Jim already asked the sniper to not tell him if he had to kill the cabbie. He doesn’t want to know if Sherlock needed his help, the idea that Sherlock could disappoint him is enough to make him sick.) 

Sherlock will survive it, but Jim still can’t relax. He needs a cigarette. 

***  
There is no evidence of the smoking when the detective comes home. 

Sherlock is excited, full of that adrenaline that can only be caused by a close encounter with the death. At that sight the criminal can’t help but smile. 

He’s even more beautiful than usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is really old too. The writing style is different from my usual because I wrote it in english without translating it first and well... it was just weird. From now, I think they will be a bit different. Anyway, this was fun to write!

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is kinda bad and old, but don't worry, the next ones will be better~ I already have chapter two, three and four ready, so don't worry, I will continue this fic.


End file.
